The Wistful Ashes
The iron gate of the Holloway estate did not creak, for it had long since lost the capacity to complain, and as I stood before it with the weight of the blackened urn pressed against my chest, the wind through the skeletal oaks sounded less like a natural phenomenon and more like the low, sustained moan of a dying congregation, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of my bones and warn...
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